Coots
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
THE RETURN
…The way the lights felt on our
Bodies when they came on...
‘Way beyond anything we had
Ever felt before.
I could see the dancers
On your skin. They had intricate
Moves and handled shadows
Like they were memories or those
Thoughts we have just before
Going to sleep, when we can’t
Tell if anything is real or not.
We were told to come back later
When things weren’t so busy, when
The streets had quieted down,
When we could actually hear what
Was being said clearly.
This would never seem to be
The case. The populations were
Exploding. Before we reached the high
Gate there were twice as many people
Clamoring to get inside. They all said
They had been there before, that they
Lived here, that when the lights
Came on it hushed most of us.
There was something we could know
From this, a deep understanding.
The teachers lined up against the walls
Grabbing at our arms, imploring us
To stay at least until midnight.
We had horses.
We mounted them
And rode toward the mountains.
Later we would talk about the entire
City as if it were only an entertainment.
From the moraine of the glacier
We could see that the lights were
Still blazing away. We had our
Own midnight with bread and a glass
Filled with the wine they make
Here. Then we climbed even higher
So morning would not recognize
Us when it stumbled across
The whole scene in its pre-dawn blear.
THE ARM OF DREAMING
He had found it almost by accident
At the place where the sand began to give
Way to the jungle, the place where the mangroves
Stopped walking and the nighttime voices were
Those of crabs carefully taking the bodies of lesser
Creatures apart piece by piece and moving them
Claw to claw to sectioned mouth, a soft scratching.
Nothing had touched the arm of dreaming.
It moved freely at its elbow and its fine fingers
Could still trace all roads as they moved between
The houses of the stars and waved to every moon.
He knew he could not keep it for long, but he knew
He could keep it to feel the power in the dreaming.
He could find his lovers anywhere and they would
Once again be his lovers. And his children. They too
He might walk with once again and say their names
As he had when they were small, telling them the stories
Once again of their grandparents and great-grandparents.
He could open their eyes to pets long gone from the earth,
Touching their lips with the fingers of the arm of dreaming
To hear them say the names once again. His body, filled
With what once had been his life force, spirited through
The arm of dreaming and he touched all of his body
With its moving fingers and ability to allow him to fly,
To bring fire from dark corners and find the words to
Long-forgotten songs once again.
For hours he clung to the arm of dreaming and it stroked
His body as if it were his own arm and flew the labyrinths
Of what was once time and mirrors but now was his once
Again as he settled into the moon-filled sand and began
The dance. From high above his body he could look
Down upon the arm of dreaming until he had risen
So far above the tiny island of sleep, over the vastness
The ocean owned, and touched the hem of the heavens
So gently and firmly it could easily have been his own life.
NOT A PROPHET
I’m not putting this anywhere.
I don’t even know how it got here.
I was walking near dawn, the light
Became fascinating and I bent to look
Deeper into the draw near the edge of camp.
There they were, welling up on a column,
Angels, two or three. The light was so bright
It was hard to tell. And the music. I fell
To my knees. Wondering if I was praying
Or was merely alarmed. At any rate, I was
Taken, completely. I was not anywhere.
I have always lived in fear. That you would
Not love me, that I would never measure up
That what I believed in was without value
In this world. I walked tight to the ground,
Not wanting to imagine anything for fear
Of manifesting it to myself or, worse, to the world.
I took this path around the camp to the water
Supply so I would not be seen, and now these
Angels, a shaft of them whirling before me.
Everyone has seen the light leap before me.
There was no longer any hiding. I shall learn
To speak aloud, to express wonder to all,
To call out the name of the lord to the darkness,
To be lead by this pillar all the days of my life.
I wish to speak to you. Do not deny me.
I am the one who comes to you totally without agenda.
___________________
___________________
THE BLACK WATCH
I felt like I’d been holding my breath
A long time. Glaciers sigh against
The mountainsides, ease their milky
Tears down the gullies and dark
Canyons to where there is some
Kind of silence, some understanding.
Red ants deliver their promises
To the earth. They too are radiant
Beings, even as the golden lion is radiant.
The heavens are always near enough
To touch, even below the earth.
Their red songs, the red dirt, their
Own idea of dark not so different
From our own. Oh but they could
Speak to us in words we understood.
The Angelus rings across the fields.
Let us hurry toward the fence.
We will want to be there as sun
Does its performance of the end of day.
Dreams won’t do you any good here.
Be it done unto me according to thy word.
THE HOURS
Even if it is just the cast of light
Across the blue pencil and the whirrl
The quartz heater makes as the room
Warms, I still feel the edges the words
Make as they move across my mouth
To find themselves safe, once again,
Inside of words that are still able to hold
My heart so gently I can feel the night
Halting, just outside the walls of this room.
There was an idea there. There still is an idea
There. The breath moves it through this one
To hold at least the flame of a wooden match
Against the window as I look past the Winter
Garden, the dense shadows of a waning moon.
I say your name once again and it is many names.
It is the songs waiting inside the instrument waiting
To be played, waiting to be sung once again.
Wait. Wait. The sun will be here in a few hours.
Sit near to me and we can talk of how we finally
Came to be in this room together, still knowing
Nothing. Still listening, still turning the tuning pegs
To get the perfect sound to come though all we touch.
TINY HOUSES
This is all blurred.
It is hard to see the tiny
Houses but you can hear
The love pouring out of them.
I CAN see that light.
I CAN hear that heart singing.
I know these trees. The stars
Dress them at night and ride
Their dazzling horses down
To astonish us with enchantment.
Oh this is marvelous even
If we can’t see clearly.
The golden mouth of the day
Touches us and strums our nerves.
To live every day like this,
The shapes, the colors, the
Imperishable sadness when
Someone asks you what you want
Out of all this. No matter.
Reflection
NOT AFRAID
Not afraid of anything,
Holes in the world, countries
Whose names are unpronounceable,
The scores of insects in the apartment
That flee when the lights come on
Along the edges of the room.
Not afraid of the rain that never stops,
The old man in 304 with his stamp
Collection and the way he talks to
His bottle of wine, sipping, sipping.
That gun that presses so close
Upon the flesh.
A better design will fix that
As we prepare for the dark words,
The claws tightening, the stench
Of whatever that is that is burning
On the street corners.
Oh this is only a bad debt
Opened up like a gutted teddy bear
Or a fish waiting to be dinner.
There are a lot of places we could go
Where none of this has happened.
The birds say so, the birds and the pale
Faces surprised at a sunflower.
We’re safe as stars here, darling,
Safe as safe, the blue skies, the blue
Water. Go ahead, fall asleep.
Forgive the tarnish and the cold.
All is forgiven. The yellow queens
Walk the land handing out Spring,
Watching, guarding, praising,
Coming in like love away from silences.
Nobody will know what has been said,
What the hell, we live here, not
Afraid. Compassion is our signature.
Grace is our swan and the river,
Enchanted by our wondrous songs.
_________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NIGHT LETTER
_________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NIGHT LETTER
You said this blue sky was imperishable
But now it is gone and there is frost on
The edges of the pond every morning.
All these thoughts I had of you have gone
Away suddenly. There is nothing left to think.
I can only look out across the valley now.
I’ll sing a little song to myself, one
That you used to enjoy. It is about
The sound the oars make when they
Scrape the gravel in the shallow water.
Maybe that sound will stop my sighing.
________________________
________________________
Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine Saturday breakfast! Some of these poems will appear in his new book, Finding Our Lives Full of People, which he will be publishing with Tom Kryss. The first part of the book just came out as a featured section in the new issue of the literary magazine, Abraxas (#49).
Poets everywhere will be saddened to hear that local poet Francisco X. Alarcón has passed away. For more about Francisco, see www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/francisco-x-alarcon or www.readingrockets.org/books/interviews/alarcon/. You and your poetry will be missed, Francisco.
—Medusa
Vintage Photo of Niagara Falls During Winter (1903)
(Anonymous)
